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Deity of the ruined temple!  The broken strings of _Vina_

sing no more your praise.  The bells in the evening proclaim not

your time of worship.  The air is still and silent about you.

In your desolate dwelling comes the vagrant spring breeze.  It

brings the tidings of flowers–the flowers that for your worship

are offered no more.

Your worshipper of old wanders ever longing for favour still

refused.  In the eventide, when fires and shadows mingle with the

gloom of dust, he wearily comes back to the ruined temple with

hunger in his heart.

Many a festival day comes to you in silence, deity of the ruined

temple.  Many a night of worship goes away with lamp unlit.

Many new images are built by masters of cunning art and carried

to the holy stream of oblivion when their time is come.

Only the deity of the ruined temple remains unworshipped in

deathless neglect.

No more noisy, loud words from me–such is my master’s will.

Henceforth I deal in whispers.  The speech of my heart will be

carried on in murmurings of a song.

Men hasten to the King’s market.  All the buyers and sellers are

there.  But I have my untimely leave in the middle of the day, in

the thick of work.

Let then the flowers come out in my garden, though it is not

their time; and let the midday bees strike up their lazy hum.

Full many an hour have I spent in the strife of the good and the

evil, but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days

to draw my heart on to him; and I know not why is this sudden

call to what useless inconsequence!

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From: GITANJALI – ‘Song Offerings’



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